


Snapdragons

by JJGrace42



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Friendship, Magic, Prophecy, Reincarnation, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-11-23 02:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJGrace42/pseuds/JJGrace42
Summary: In all of her lives, she’d never felt so lost before. But that didn’t matter. None of it did. Nothing except serving her warlock and her king. OC-Insert fanfic. Rated M for violence, strong themes, and language.





	1. Prologue - Idles

“Will you still want me? Even when Arthur’s here?”

Uther looks up from his food with a start to find that the girl isn’t eating. Instead, she is lazily spinning a dinner knife in the air with the twist of her hand, gaze distant and glazed in the way that is so common with her, as if she’s looking at something that isn’t there or remembering something she has long forgot. But then she seems to realize that she has his full attention, because she clears her throat and straightens. The knife drops back to her plate with a clatter and she reaches for her cup. “Is Mother going to join us?”

He takes a sip of his wine and shakes his head. “She’s resting. Lisabet took in dinner to her.” Uther reaches out and plucks up several grapes from the bowl. “Of course we’ll still want you. You speak of ridiculous things yet again.”

She scoffs and leans her chair back, propping her feet up on the table. It is only a sharp look from him that makes her dip her chin apologetically and lower her feet again. “It’s hardly ridiculous. I’m not your real child. It would only make sense that, once you have your own flesh and blood in hand, that then—“

“Stop.”

Her deep gaze flicks to him and, not for the first time, he wonders at what Nimueh meant when she said the girl has old souls in those emeralds. One of those souls—something angry and ancient and just a touch too resigned—surges to the forefront and she sighs. “You’ll love him more. You know that, of course. And I think I’ll be okay with that. You just have to promise me that I’ll get to stay.”

“Of course. Ygraine would hardly have it any other way.”

“And you?” Somehow, her stare is more piercing and expectant than her words.

“I swore an oath when Ygraine and I took you in,” he assures her carefully. “That your blood might not be of our own, but that your life is mine to protect.”

“And to keep,” she says mildly, finishing the thought out for him. “I get to stay.”

“Of course.”

She considers that for a long moment before sitting back in her chair. “Acceptable,” she murmurs, waving a hand. Her eyes flash gold and her roast lamb moves from her plate. She snatches it out of the air by the bone and tears into the meat with her teeth. After a moment, she waves the bone and says, “I want to teach him the sword.”

Uther manages a slight laugh at that, as well as a smile that he quickly hides with his wine. “You hardly know the sword yourself at your age.”

“I’ll learn,” she says, lifting her chin.

“He will have knights to teach him.”

“I’ll just have to get better than them. That way, he would need my instruction.” She thrusts the bone out like a weapon. “And I’ll teach him how to be the best fighter in the kingdom! There won’t be a knight in the land that isn’t scared of him!”

He chuckles and rises to his feet. “Finish eating. Then perhaps you can visit Ygraine before you retire for the night.”

Excitement touches her face at that and she drops the lamb back to her plate. “I want a story!” she announces, sliding off of the chair and messily wiping her hands on the front of her dress. When he gives her a sharp look, she manages to look suitably chagrined and straightens out her skirt. “Shall we go?” Then she strides out of the room ahead of him.

The quarters are dark when they reach them, the curtains drawn and three simple candles casting light. A tray of food is upon the table, half-eaten. Ygraine is on the bed, dozing lightly with one hand upon her rounded stomach. At the sound of the door, she opens her eyes and turns her gaze to them. She smiles. “Deryn, love, come here.” She extends a hand and lifts her head.

“Mother,” the girl says easily. She climbs onto the edge of the bed and clutches the outstretched hand. “Is he coming?”

“Not yet, my dear. But soon. Very soon.” Ygraine smiles. “And I will be thankful when he does. I’m not enjoying this state.”

“You look pretty,” Deryn assures her with a nod of her head. “I’d like a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“One with me. I want to be a knight in this one.” She considers that and then tacks on a hasty, “Please.”

Ygraine nods, gaze lifting to Uther as he pauses beside the bed. “Of course. This is the story of the brave knight Sir Deryn.”

* * *

 

“You truly do learn well. Though perhaps if you did not split you attention—“

“I will be a great sorceress,” Deryn announces sternly. “And a great knight. I don’t need to choose.”

“A knight?” Nimueh asks, raising one eyebrow. “You aren’t a nobleman.”

“Good. Because they would be ashamed to not live up to the standards I set.” She turns back a page in the book. “I want to try the spell again.”

Nimueh smiles and puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she turns her attention down to the tome. “Very well. Begin.”

Deryn casts her gaze over the page and then thrusts her hand out again over the mouse. “Gestepe hole,” she murmurs, tilting her head forward in concentration. “Þurhhæle.” Her eyes grow gold and the mouse beneath her stare twitches. It shifts. And then it breathes. Deryn squeals in delight and tumbles to her feet. “I did it! Did you see?”

“Excellent.” Nimueh gently picks up the mouse and holds it out to the girl. “You healed it well.”

“I brought it back to life!”

“It was not dead. Just injured.”

“Oh.” Deryn frowns and carefully takes the animal, studying it as it curls up in the palm of her hand. “So I can’t control life and death? Like you?”

“No. And I don’t control life and death. I simple ensure balance in my changes. That’s the way the Old Religion needs it to be.”

“Balance? A life for a life?”

“Precisely. You learn so well, young one.” Nimueh drops a hand to her head. “Tell me,” she murmurs, staring into those echoing green lives. “What do your memories tell you?”

Deryn lifts the mouse to her shoulder and lets it curl into her collarbone. “Whispers,” she says, after a moment. “I think I remember dying, sometimes. I don’t like it.”

“No, I can’t imagine you would.” The priestess presses her fingers into the soft underside of Deryn’s chin. “The Old Religion continues to bring you back for a reason. You have a purpose, my dear. A great one. A destiny.”

“I don’t think I like the idea of destiny.”

“Those fated for tragedy seldom do.”

* * *

 

“Do not let your blade dip, my lady. A dropping sword is a lowered sword, and a lowered sword is of use to no one but your enemy.”

“Of course.” She struggles a bit with the weight of the sword but manages to straighten it. “Better?”

Agravaine smiles. “Much. Now, disarm me.”

She follows the blocks she’s been taught. She executes the footwork perfectly. But the fact remains that she is a child, wielding a weapon too large for her against an opponent too big to fight properly. Which easily explains how she ends up flat on the ground, a blade pointed at her soft throat. Deryn frowns, eyes narrowing. And then they flash gold and Agravaine’s sword is thrown aside until it impales itself deeply into the ground.

He lets out a cry of shock and then offers up a distasteful look before beginning to work at freeing his weapon. A laugh interrupts him and he looks sharply to the side. “You may find it amusing, but parlor tricks are hardly going to make up for her failing to master the sword.”

Balinor just grins, leaning on the fence. “Perhaps now. But these parlor tricks, as you call them, do serve to entertain.”

“Don’t worry,” Deryn says, pushing herself to her feet. She picks up her sword and widens her stance to properly support the weight. “I’ll beat you without my magic. Eventually.” She shifts her position. “I’d like to try again.”

“Very well. Just let me—“ With a heavy grunt, Agravaine frees his sword. “Excellent. Adjust your knees. You need to—“

“My lord! My lady!”

Agravaine is the first to locate the source of the call. “Gaius?” He frowns. “What is it?”

“The queen,” Gaius says, holding the hem of his robes up with his chest heavy and heaving. “Arthur is coming.”

Deryn drops her sword and lets out a cry of surprised excitement. Her sword doesn’t touch the ground. Instead, her eyes flash gold with emotion and her sword goes spinning end over end into the air before coming down with a crash. By the time it lands in the grass, she is already off at a run. “Where is she?”

“The Queen’s Quarters, my dear,” Gauis says, shuffling along quickly beside her and glancing back at where Agravaine is close behind. “Alice is tending to her. It was very sudden.”

Deryn messily unties the sash keeping the skirt of her dress out of the way for training, letting it drape back down around her breeches. She half-scrambles, half-falls up the stairwell and down the hall. She hears someone far behind calling for her, but she ignores them in favor of throwing open the doors.

“Deryn!” Uther says sternly, straightening from his spot at his wife’s bedside. “Behave. I will not have you running about—“

“My little bird,” Ygraine gasps out, extending a hand. “Come.”

Deryn offers Uther a smug look and marches past him, brushing the dirt off her dress. Then she clutches at Ygraine’s hand. “Alice?”

“All is well,” Alice assures her. “My lord, you seem flushed. Perhaps some fresh air would do you some good.” The woman looks up briefly at Uther before refocusing on the work she is doing between the queen’s legs. “I can assure you that all will be fine.”

Uther clears his throat. “Yes, I—“ He briefly drops a hand atop Deryn’s head. “That sounds like a good idea. I will return. Agravaine, attend me. We will leave the physicians to their work.” He moves towards the door.

Agravaine hesitates. “Very well, sire. Deryn, why don’t you—“

“I’m staying,” she says simply, tightening her hold on Ygraine’s hand. “I don’t want to miss Arthur.”

“You will not miss him,” Uther murmurs. Then he leaves, Agravaine close behind him.

Ygraine smiles and looks about to say something when she cuts herself off with a groan, arching against the bed painfully. “A-alice,” she gasps out.

“You’re close. Gaius, fetch me some water. Deryn.” The physician looks up and she smiles. “I would like your help.”

Deryn had read many of Gaius’s books and notes on anatomy. When she’d learned about the pregnancy, she’d thrown herself into discovering what she could about reproduction and the miracle of a new life coming into the world. Yet none of that could have prepared her for her introduction the the screaming, crying, red baby slicked with blood and other fluids that Alice pressed into her arms hours later.

She must have started crying before Arthur was even given to her, because the moment she leans over him, her tears start to drip away the fluids across his face and his wails slow to a pause. “Hello,” she gasps out. Deryn looks up. “Alice, I— Alice!” And then her hold on Arthur tightens and he’s screaming again. Deryn stares. “What’s happening?”

“Get the king!” Alice snaps at Gaius. “Deryn, stay away.”

“I, I, I can help,” Deryn gasps, surging forward and clutching Arthur to her chest. “Nimueh was teaching me healing spells. Surely—“

“Ygraine!” The door is thrown open. “What’s happening?” Uther demands, striding inside. “Alice!”

“I don’t know, sire!” Alice gasps out, hand stretched over Ygraine’s abdomen. Ygraine herself is muttering tiredly, skin shining with sweat and eyes moving rapidly in their closed state. “Everything was going so well. And then, as soon as Arthur was out, it’s almost as if her body gave up. Gaius, I need more sage.”

“Ygraine,” Uther breaths, leaning down against the bed and smoothing his hand across his wife’s forehead. “Stay with me, my love. Stay.”

She turns her head towards him but doesn’t open her eyes. Her lips part. “—ther.”

“I’m here.”

“—er. Arthur.”

Uther’s gaze moves to Arthur for the first time and, simultaneously, something seems to break and strengthen in his expression. “He’s alright. He’s alright, my dear. And he needs you.”

“Arthur,” Ygraine mumbles again, sinking fully into her bed.

“Alice!” Uther snaps. “Gaius! Surely there’s something you can do!”

“Father—“

“Out!” Uther yells. “Take Arthur away! Ygraine needs me!”

Deryn stumbles backwards and she can’t think of anything but the way Arthur is still screaming. She backs away, struggling to keep the baby to her chest with one arm as she gropes wildly for the door with the other. Then she trips backwards into the hall and the door closes loudly before her.

Arthur is still crying.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Deryn says, kneeling and cradling him. “It’s going to be okay.” She scrabbles awkwardly at her skirt until she manages to draw the fabric up around his bare body. “You’s so small,” she breathes. “That’s okay, though. I’m here.”

“Nimueh!”

The roar thunders through the air just before the doors are thrown violently open. Deryn scrambles back just in time to avoid herself and Arthur being trampled under Uther’s feet. He doesn’t even see them, screaming the high priestess’s name as he storms down the passageway, his rage poisoning the air around him.

Deryn stares past the creaking doors. Alice is sobbing in Gaius’s arms, the man holding her as he stares blankly at the wall. On the bed, Ygraine is still and white with her hand outstretched expectantly.

Deryn catches her breath. Arthur is still crying. She looks down.

“Balance,” she whispers. “A life for a life.”

* * *

 

The first time he screams at her is three weeks after Arthur’s birth. It is also the first time she’s seen him since he’d gone thundering through the halls of Camelot, screaming Nimueh’s name as a challenge until she fled. Since then, she’d spent her hours in contemplative silence with Arthur, speaking encouragingly to him as he shrieked at his wet nurse and crying over him as she listened to the gossip in the passages.

_A purge,_ they said. _The cleansing of sorcery from the land,_ they whispered. And then Deryn would look down at the lights she had dancing above Arthur to calm him from his wails. And then she would put them out and simply whimper as he began to cry again. And she would hold out as long as she could, but it was never long enough. Because then she would given in and the small, blue baubles would dance above Arthur’s head. And he would laugh and reach for them. And it was worth being caught.

Because she _was_ caught.

“How could you?”

The question is dry and broken and rasped out like brittle air over rusty metal. Her magic vanishes on instinct and Arthur’s wails begin immediately. She looks up to find Uther standing in the doorway. Hadn’t it been closed?

“Father,” she mumbles.

“After what you saw it do to Ygraine,” he says, staring at Arthur and not at her. “How could you bear it?”

She doesn’t have an answer.

“How could you?” he asks again, this time the volume of his voice mounting. “You must never, _never_ use magic! It corrupts! Sorcery is the very bane of Camelot! The evil in this world it—“ His voice breaks off at the crescendo and Uther frowns, but he’s still looking at Arthur and not at her. “If you use magic,” he says, voice eerie in its calm. “If you use magic, then I will have no choice but to have you burned.”

He sweeps from the room like a rushing fire. Like the one he is threatening her with. And Deryn just stares after him, carefully pressing her knuckles against Arthur’s lips and letting him suckle there to calm his cries.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “He’s just angry. Pendragons don’t do well with their anger. I might be one in name only, but . . . it’s a family trait. I’m sorry.”

He just stares up at her curiously with those ocean eyes.

“That’s okay, though,” she says, smiling sadly. “I’m here.”

* * *

 

Tristan is torrid beneath his armor. Deryn can practically feel the rage boiling between the bits of metal and oozing out into the air. His face is twisted in anger when he throws his gauntlet at Uther’s feet. “I will avenge my sister’s death,” he says.

Uther looks resigned as he stoops and agrees to the terms. He looks towards her and Deryn doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone that tired in her entire life.

And then Uther kills Tristan in combat. Tristan is scorching until his dying breath, gasping out revenge and honor in the name of Ygraine.

Agravaine leaves.

He hides his wrath better.

* * *

 

Alice is gone.

There are parts of the physicians’ chambers missing. Alice’s workbench and her herbs and magical ointments. The shelves are cleared of her books and Deryn tries to forget the smell of burnt pages that is still lingering outside. Just like she tries to forget the small stash of books hidden beneath her own floorboards.

Also, Gaius used to hum while he worked. He isn’t humming anymore.

Deryn reads the same line again. She isn’t sure how many times she’d read it now, but she is more focused on the broken silence of Gaius moving jars and bowls about instead. In fact, she can’t even remember what this book was about. Ill humors, or something like that. She isn’t sure. She sighs and finally looks up. “Gaius—“

“And where is young Arthur today, my lady? Normally you never leave his side.”

Deryn blinks at the interruption and stares at where Gaius is standing at his workbench, his back to her. She clears her throat. “He’s with Lisabet.”

“Ah. He’s a handsome boy.”

“He’s loud.” And then, as if like an afterthought, she adds, “Healthy lungs. Not that Father notices. I don’t think he’s even looked at Arthur in months, let alone held him.”

“Now, my dear, the king is in mourning.” Finally, he does look at her and he looks much older than she knows he is.

Deryn tilts her head to the side and decides to test the waters. “He’s not in mourning. He’s not in grief. He’s in guilt and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he’s feeding it to his Pendragon anger.”

At that, something in Gaius’s expression shifts and he doesn’t just look tired anymore. He looks sad. “My dear,” he murmurs. “There are things that should not be spoken aloud.”

She stares at the unlit candle on the table, mulling over those words. Then she whispers, “Forbærne,” and the wick comes alight. She hears him catch his breath, but instead of looking she just watches the time marks on the candle as the wax drips down them. “I know,” she murmurs. “Believe me, I know.”

* * *

 

Balinor is gone and there is a creature of the Old Religion beneath the castle. Deryn isn’t supposed to know how to get to him, but she does anyway. The Great Dragon stares down at her with a sneer before stopping short. He studies her. He stares. And then he leaves.

Deryn goes back. Night after night, she stays in the cavern under the castle and just sits in silence there as the Great Dragon prowls about. She doesn’t say anything. Not for a long time.

And then she does.

“I’m sorry.”

He stops his stalking and swings his giant head to her. The air between them is hot with the fire growling in his throat. Deryn just looks him in the eye.

“I’m sorry.”

He releases a snarl at her for that, disbelieving and angry and with every ounce of seething wrath that she knows she deserves. Deryn shifts so she’s on her knees and she bows her head.

“I’m sorry, Kilgharrah. Forgive me.”

* * *

 

Arthur is two when he starts talking. So he is two when she stops using her magic around him. He’s confused at first, of course, but he quickly forgets that he’s ever seen it from her. And Deryn finds it easier to breathe knowing that her brother’s clueless words about her magic will never happen. And that they will never reach the wrong ears.

Arthur is four the next time she uses her magic on him. He’s fallen in the armory and cut his forehead. She holds him a little too tightly as he cries; tight enough that he can’t look up to see her gold eyes as she lets her magic heal him.

Arthur is five when she’s helping him learn to ride and, during their time stopping for a picnic, he picks and eats a handful of poisonous berries before she can stop him. It’s a nasty business, making someone throw up. But Arthur is so ill to his stomach from bile and embarrassed from the new stains on his shirt that he never notices the ancient words she mutters under her breath. And that is when she knows that, yes, she will always be careful. But it would be worth getting caught if it keeps Arthur safe.

Deryn practices in private. Between four solid walls and drawn curtains and only candles there to witness, because they are the only ones she can trust not to gossip.

She studies the pages intently, committing the words on it to memory before even considering using them. _Know the spell,_ Nimueh had said, _and know it intimately. You do not call on a stranger for help._ So Deryn studies until she can see the entry in her mind’s eye. Until she can whisper it all to her candles.

She hears something in the hallway and pauses. When the footsteps stop outside her door, Deryn throws the book back under the loose board beneath her bed and snatches up an anatomy tome. Someone knocks. “My lady?” a voice calls.

“Enter,” Deryn says, not looking up from the dark lines of the skeletal diagram. When she hears the door open, she murmurs, “Can I help you, Gaius?”

“My lady?” he says in surprise. “Why are you here in the dark?”

She looks up and smiles. “Headache. I know that rest would be better, but not even a headache can keep me from my studies.”

“Ah. Your headaches are why I’m here.” He moves forward and crouches down beside her with a subtle groan—his age is beginning to catch up with him, and now it’s showing in more than his greying hair. “Here.” He presses a vial into her hands. “It should help.”

Deryn smiles at the small jar. “Thank you,” she says softly, but she knows that it won’t help. Because she can feel the way her magic builds up into pain with each passing day without use. Because she can feel the way her eyes burn to turn gold but settle for aching instead. “You always take care of me, Gaius.”

“Of course.” He smiles softly, but there is a sad edge to it that only seems to be there when he is looking at her. And then that smile twitches into something amused. “Someone has to, I suppose. You certainly will not.”

Deryn lets that pull a laugh out of her. “Of course not,” she says, closing her book. “I’m far too busy taking care of Arthur. Did you know that this morning he attempted to eat a rose? Thorns first, straight down.” She taps her fingers against her throat to illustrate her point, but that seems to serve to only attract his attention to the bandage around her hand.

“My lady?”

“I was training early this morning. It was just before dawn, so I suppose that’s why I couldn’t see as well as I should have.”

“A training accident? Well, let me take a look.”

“That won’t be necessary. I treated it myself—yes, I do pay attention to the books you give me—and it’s a good reminder to be more careful from now on.”

She pretends she doesn’t see that sad edge sharpening.

* * *

 

Deryn asks her souls why they live inside her and why she lives at all. They always answer with murmurs of a warlock and king and a prophecy she’s to serve. Eventually, Deryn learns not to ask.

So instead, she lets the souls speak of other things. She lets them teach her spells that aren’t in any of her books and things about the Old Religion that she’s thought were long since lost. And at night—on the nights when she does manage sleep—they share images and flashes of their pasts through her dreams. And she has to live with the ache of loss and heartbreak and anger without so much as knowing the names that belong to the faces she sees.

Sometimes, she leaves her bed in the night, throws a cloak across her shoulders, and roams. Whether it be through the halls of the castle, through Camelot itself, or even the woods around it, she just feels she has to leave the suffocation inside her room.

It isn’t uncommon for her to wander down to the cavern and sit silently in Kilgharrah’s presence.

He never speaks. Never says anything. She never says much of anything either, at first. She apologizes and leaves it at that. But then things change.

“Sir Robert is sleeping with his wife’s maidservant.”

Kilgharrah is settled on some of the rocks, pretending to be asleep. But eventually he seems to have given up on maintaining that ruse, because he opens one burning eye and stares at her.

“I would feel bad for Lady Wynne if I didn’t know that she’s bedding Sir Cador. It’s all a mess, really. I don’t understand. It’s one thing to lie. But to make a promise, like marriage, and not keep it?”

He doesn’t say anything. She wonders at the stories about dragons as mindless beasts, unable to think or speak, but her souls tell her that isn’t true. So she continues to visit and she continues to talk.

“Lady Lowri is pregnant again. After three girls, she’s hoping for a son.”

It’s harmless information, really.

“Cookie sometimes burns the bread on purpose. Because then Uther won’t eat it and the maids will get it instead.”

Gossip, rumors, stories about things about the castle.

“The stableboy, Thomas, is in love. I haven’t gotten him to give me a name yet, but I’m safely sure that it’s Reese.”

She sometimes follows the stories she’s set up.

“It’s a girl. Always a girl.”

Sometimes, a specific character.

“Sir Cador’s bedding someone else, now. You can imagine the fit that Wynne has been throwing. She slept with Cador’s brother as retaliation. Sir Robert’s still oblivious.”

And sometimes, the information isn’t so light. It’s heavy and dark and her voice breaks when she says it.

“They were burning children today. I had to stand there and watch and I couldn’t do anything. I wanted to save them.”

Kilgharrah never says anything.

“You don’t have to listen, you know. If you want me to leave, you can just tell me. It’s nice to talk freely, but it isn’t worth it if you hate it.” Deryn puts her hands on her hips and stares up at him. “I can leave. Never come back.”

But the years have been so lonely and he isn’t sure how long he’s been trapped there. It had to have been a while, because Deryn no longer looks to be the tender age of eight. So Kilgharrah looks around at his prison and then down at her and says the first word to her he ever has.

“Stay.”

* * *

 

There have been threats against Arthur before, but the first serious one happens when he is three. Lisabet is dead and it is only her scream as she dies that alerts the guards and makes the assassin run before he can finish his job and kill the child. Arthur starts crying and doesn’t stop, despite Uther’s demands.

And Deryn is furious.

She’s the one to scrub Lisabet’s blood from Arthur’s hands, but knows there is no hope for the red staining his shirt. She throws it into the empty fireplace in her room and lights it with a flare of her eyes. Deryn watches it burn and imagines setting fire to the man that tried to kill her brother.

Three hours later, the warning bells stop. The assassin is found, dead in a pool of his own blood with his throat split and his mouth still wide in a scream.

Arthur is three the first time Deryn kills for him.

* * *

 

Deryn has Sir Eustace down on the ground with her sword at his throat and she’s never been prouder. She feels a smile—sharp, unbecoming—curl her lips. “Yield,” she says, voice not wavering and leaving no room for argument.

The man snarls at her but relents with a nod. Deryn steps back and hands off her sword to Bronwen. She turns, still aglow in her victory, when something snatches at the back of her shirt. Her magic presses up against her skin but she bites it back forcefully, biting her own tongue in the process. She hits the ground hard and the man is looming over her.

“Pendragon or not,” he gnashes out, “I will not be bested by a girl. By a _child._ I—“

And then there are knights dragging him away. Sir William spits curses at the man and raises his sword as if to bring the hilt down on Eustace’s head. Deryn stumbles to her feet. “Wait,” she orders, voice snapping and blood leaking from her mouth. She wipes at her lips and her hand comes away red. “Release him. He may have been stupid, but that hardly means he deserves what my father would do to him.”

But yet that doesn’t seem to calm his rage. Instead, Eustace strains against the people holding him. _“Your father?”_ he asks disbelievingly. “You don’t share anything with my king. Not bone, not flesh, not a single drop of blood! How dare you—“

“What is going on here?”

Uther’s voice booms across the training ground. All gazes turn to him and Eustace drops to his knees, bowing his head. “Sire, I—“

And then Uther’s gauntlet silences him as it hits the ground in front of the man. “Noon,” the king growls out. “Tomorrow. To the death.”

Eustace stares at the gauntlet. He picks it up with a shaking hand.

He dies the next day.

* * *

 

Deryn uses her magic in front of Arthur again when he’s seven. They’re having dinner in his quarters and he’s excitedly telling her about the hunt her accompanied Uther on when he waves his hands to far and knocks his goblet off. She doesn’t think too much about it— _Arthur is safe,_ her mind tells her—and her eyes turn gold as she catches the cup without a word and places it back on the table, not a drop spilled. She doesn’t think much of it.

Not until Arthur starts screaming.

Deryn jerks in surprise and lunges around the table to him. It doesn’t even occur to her that she’s the source of his terror. She grips him firmly and starts looking him over for . . . for something. For injury, damage, something that could cause this. Arthur’s stopped screaming and now he’s just staring at her, pale.

The door is flung open. “Prince Arthur!” The guard immediately seeks out her gaze. “My lady? What’s happened? Is the prince injured?”

“I don’t know.” She drags Arthur into her arms and cradles him to her chest. He’s crying now. “Get Gaius.” When the guard doesn’t move immediately, her expression darkens. “Now!”

“Of course, my lady!” He escapes down the hall and the door closes again.

“D-deryn,” Arthur shakes out. “You—“

And then it all comes crashing down and Deryn realizes what she’s done. “Oh, Arthur,” she chokes out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—“ She leans her forehead down against his and begins mumbled her apologies over and over. Arthur lets her, clinging to her like a lifeline.

Eventually, he whispers, “Are you evil?”

Deryn catches her breath and then presses a kiss to his hair. “I don’t know, Arthur. Am I?”

The door opens. “My lady,” Gaius greets, expression dark with concern. “What happened?”

She only manages to shake her head dumbly. Gaius kneels beside them and Deryn opens her arms a bit for Gaius to see the way Arthur is shaking and white. “Sire,” Gaius murmurs. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Arthur’s gaze flicks to her and he stares for a long moment. And then he manages, “I don’t feel well. My, my chest hurts. And my head.”

Gaius’s expression softens further and he lays down his medicine basket. “I see. Let me see what I can do for you, sire.”

Arthur never speaks to anyone about her magic.

Arthur asks for her to show him more.

* * *

 

This is what Deryn Pendragon knows. This is what she does not.

She knows that she is not Uther’s flesh and blood, but that he would break his bones for her. She does not know whose flesh and blood she really is.

She knows that a passionate heart and sharp mind are just some of the things she has in common with the king. She does not know how to keep his heart in check, and she does not know how to keep her mind chained.

She knows that the king is law and that the king is wrong. She does not know how to tell him these things.

She knows that there are whispers and old lives trapped in her ribcage. She does not know how to get rid of them.

She knows that the stench of the burnt bodies from the pyre will eventually leave the courtyard. She does not know how to scrub the stench from her skin.

She knows that she should not practice magic in the moments she steals alone in the dark corners of the castle. She does not know what Uther would do if he found out.

She knows that all the souls ache in her when she sees the first of the dragons die. She does not know how to make the hurt stop.

She knows that it is wrong to defy the king. She does not know how not to.

She knows that sometimes her soul— _hers—_ will hurt and twist in her body. She does not know why.

She knows that she is not Arthur’s flesh and blood. She decides this is the one thing she knows that doesn’t matter.


	2. Chapter One - Mote

“How are your nightmares?” she asked over her embroidery.

“How are yours?” Morgana asked sharply in return. And then she looked suitably abashed and ducked her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not sleeping well.”

Deryn paused and lowered her needle. “I know the feeling. Are Gaius’s draughts not helping?”

“I—“ Morgana looked down. “No,” she whispered. “And . . . you? The draughts for your pain?”

Deryn shook her head, frowning. “The pain comes and goes. There’s no real consistency to it, so there’s not point in stressing Gaius with a heavier workload. Gwen, do you have any red thread?”

“Yes.” It took a moment but then Guinevere held out the spool. “It’s gorgeous.”

Deryn took the thread with a smile. “Thank you,” she said, looking down at the flowers she was sewing into the hem of the fabric. “The dress is for Bronwen. I thought I would give her something nice for her wedding.”

“She’ll love it,” Morgana said, leaning forward to examine the dress.

They were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door and Bronwen herself looked inside. She flushed a little. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lady. But the king has requested you accompany him to the execution.”

Deryn’s gaze flicked to Morgana at the way the other woman stilled. But then she stood and lowered her work back to her seat. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Morgana and Gwen. Then she turned and left. Bronwen followed her down the hallway, already talking about the different options for what to get dressed in. Deryn paused at her door and glanced at her. “Bronwen, dear, it’s an execution, not a feast.”

Bronwen flushed again and followed her into her quarters. “Of course milady.” With that, she immediately went to Deryn’s wardrobe and retrieved one of Deryn’s simpler, blue dresses. She helped the princess into it and fixed up her hair. Then she stepped back, smiling with contentment.

“Could I have my sword, please?”

Bronwen blinked. “My lady? Are you sure?”

Deryn smiled palely. “These executions tend to bring out those who have issues with my father. I’d rather not be a liability if it comes down to it.” With that said, she accepted Bronwen’s help in securing the scabbard around her waist and then the red cloak across her shoulders. After asking Bronwen to gather her things from Morgana’s chambers, Deryn left and strode down the halls to the balcony that overlooked the courtyard. She reached it and nodded. “Father.” She stepped up next to him and looked down at where the executioner was finishing sharpening his axe and a crowd was already beginning to gather. “No pyre?”

“Lady Helen is to arrive soon,” Uther said, gazing downward at his subjects. “We wouldn’t want to greet her with the smell of burnt flesh, now, would we?”

“Of course not,” Deryn murmured. “What’s his name?”

“Thomas Collins.”

Deryn watched as the man was dragged towards the stage and forced to his knees. Her heart ached and her souls wailed. But there was nothing she could do. There never was.

Uther stepped up to the railing. “Let this serve as a lesson to all,” he said, voice booming out across the courtyard. “This man, Thomas James Collins, is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic. And, pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that such practices are banned on penalty of death. I pride myself as a fair and just king, but for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass.”

Deryn forced herself not to drop her gaze and not to make a sound. Fair, just, crime. Words her father never seemed to really understand.

Uther raised his hand and then brings it down. At the same time, the executioner raised his axe and brought it down on the man’s neck. The head dropped into the basket and it was all Deryn could do not to flinch.

“When I came to this land, this kingdom was mired in chaos.”

Deryn always wondered how people didn’t see his obvious lies. After all, she couldn’t be the only one that remembered what it was really like before the Great Purge; she couldn’t be the only one that remembered how it had been _peace,_ not chaos.

“Let the celebrations begin.”

Uther turned away from the balcony and Deryn was about to follow when she caught sight of a face in the crowd. A man—boy, dream, destiny—that she’d never seen before, and yet . . . .

A wail had started.

A woman stumbled forward, old and decrepit and hunched with far more than age. “There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic! It is you!”

Deryn hated the way she could feel the woman’s anguish. The way she knew that Uther deserved every cutting word aimed at him.

“With your hatred and your ignorance! You took my son! And I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son.”

And Deryn could understand. And she could forgive. She could forgive everything but that threat against Arthur. She heard Uther’s order to seize the woman and her hand went to her sword, ready to charge into the courtyard. But the woman grabbed at the cord around her neck and hissed and wind burst around her, whirling black until the woman disappeared.

Deryn surged forward against the railing, casting her gaze across the area to see if she could find where the woman went. Her stare snapped to the guards below. “Find her!” she ordered. She turned sharply to the men next to her and pointed roughly at one of the guards there. “Toll the warning bell. And you,” —her stare shifted to the guard beside him— “find the prince and bring him to me.”

“Yes, milady!” the two shouted before running off on their separate missions.

Deryn turned to find Uther watching her appraisingly. “What a shame,” he murmured. “What a shame about your blood.”

Deryn blinked and frowned. “My . . . lord?” she asked cautiously. “Father?”

He smiled. Small and tight, but proud. “You would have made a great queen.” Then he looked back over the courtyard for just a half second before turning and leaving. “Find the witch.”

“Of course.” Deryn looked down at the emptying courtyard and—

He was still there.

Her souls began to bubble with excitement and purpose and she _had_ seen that face before, so many times in her past lives. When she’d failed again and again. And he was—

He was staring in shock as the sorcerer’s body was cleaned away.

That wouldn’t do. She couldn’t face him like this. Not when he’d just watched her stand by and let a man get killed and then sent for his mother’s death as well. Deryn turned away, hand still on her sword, and escaped back into the castle.

The second guard was following Arthur down the hall and straightened when he saw her. “Milady, the prince.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.” She stopped in front of Arthur and watched for a moment as the guard left.

“What’s going on, Deryn? I was practicing.”

“You certainly need it,” she said easily, enjoying the offense that drew across his face. But she sobered quickly. “I need you to be on your guard. The mother of the sorcerer that we just executed wants to kill you.”

“What’s new, then?” he grumbled.

“Arthur!”

He had the decency to look chagrined. “Sorry.”

“I just need you to be careful. We’ll find her.”

“Careful? Me? I’m always careful.”

Deryn’s expression tightened. Arthur watched her for a long moment before mumbling, “You’re actually worried.” A furrow started between his brows.

She pressed her lips together and then whispered. “I’m always worried about you, Arthur. You never cease to get yourself into trouble.”

And then the warning bell began to toll.

* * *

 

“Milady, if I could have a moment of your time before you go in.”

Deryn stopped just before the doors and glanced back. She smiled. “Gaius. What can I do for you?”

“I heard about what happened and I know how worried you must be. I also know how stressed you get in these situations, and what that does to the pain you experience.” He held out a small jar. “This will help calm your nerves and ease the pain before it begins.”

She took it and considered it for a moment. “Take it now?”

“That would be best.”

Deryn uncorked the stopped and gulped down the draught. She shuddered as she handed it back. “Needs more honey.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s made for health, not taste.”

“Nevertheless, thank you.” She smoothed out her skirt and offered him one more smile before turning and pushing her way into the hall. She smiled at Bronwen when the woman spotted her from across the hall and immediately moved to get a pitcher of wine. Deryn to the chair to her father’s left side. “Father,” she greeted, sitting down.

He nodded to her. “Ah. And now the celebrations can begin.”

Celebrations indeed, she mused. There was nothing here to celebrate. There was everything here to mourn.


End file.
